The Story Ends Like This
by SalvaVeritate
Summary: I press my cheek against yours and I feel you shudder. Your wet cheek. My wet cheek. We stay like that. It is more intimate than a kiss, more binding than sex.
1. Chapter 1

I.  
_  
Trapped on the terraces, I looked at you and knew  
You were the only thing that mattered  
There was no one for me but you  
In Harmony Street we beat a man  
Just for standing there  
I held my breath as I watched you swing  
Then run your fingers through your hair_

_Oh, how could anyone not love the terrible things you do?_

-Barricade by Stars

--

The story ends like this:

The crowd parts, letting me pass. In their hands, a detailed photocopied compilation of my secrets. They read. They look at you. Yes, you. Standing there, all alone, big green eyes leaking salt water.

They alternate gaping at me, glaring at you. Loving me, hating you. An onslaught of concern comes my way, thrown at my bruises, my wounds, at my left arm in a cast.

I ignore them. As always, like always, I ignore them.

You blink. Tears fall. I wanted to lick them off your cheeks, knowing how much of a delicacy it was. I wanted to drink your tears, wanted it to slide down my throat and warm my stomach.

I smile.

You don't move.

In my periphery, a page with your photo. I hear pages turning. Your life. Our life. Lived with love. Written with hatred.

Annette is beside me. She holds my hand, tilts her chin slightly. Cecile giggles.

You look at me.

Your expression? None. I know you're already leaving yourself behind at this point.

By now, the silence is over. In its place, a pandemonium. Outcries. These people want to crucify you. They want to turn me into the hero, the State's Witness, the converted villain. They want me to lead them, to replace you, to be the Model Citizen.

I wanted to shoot them.

Your mother is grabbing your arm. Pulling. Her eyes? Murderous. Her mouth? Hissing, swearing, loathing you. Your arm is the only thing that moves. For a second, I wonder if she has somehow managed to dislocate it. But your expression doesn't change.

You just look at me.

I come closer. Closer, until Annette stops coming with me. I think she's scared of what you might do.

I touch your cheek. My thumb on your bottom lip. I can still feel your damp skin. I stroke your mouth. I wipe the tears off your face. I lick my index finger and I taste you. Your mother has stopped pulling you. You don't move.

Your face still wet with tears. Not pathetic tears. Never pathetic tears. Will you let me have some, will you let me share it? I press my cheek against yours and I feel you shudder. Your wet cheek. My wet cheek. We stay like that. It is more intimate than a kiss, more binding than sex.

I breathe you in. Your hair tickles my forehead.

I don't know how long it lasted, or if it even lasted long. But it doesn't matter. The power of a story is that you can stretch time, stretch moments like this.

So I'm stretching. I pull and pull and pull and I stretch time for you.

For me.

After the pulling, the stretching, the noting of little details about you—your smell, how soft your hair is, how long, the warmth of your skin, the dampness of your cheeks—, I finally realize there is nothing more to pull, nothing more to do but let time pass

Your mother tugs your blouse urgently, angrily.

And then you move.

You turn your head and your lips brush against my cheek.

You say something but the noise blocks it out.

What did you say?

What?

Tell me,

a promise of revenge?

something witty?

a joke you heard, a story you found funny?

Tell me!

Your back to me, your small body shoved into the car.

Just like that,

you're gone.

The Wicked Witch is dead. The town celebrates.

Annette and I leave the celebration. Her cheeks are flushed, her blue eyes alive.

In my room:

She takes my clothes off.

I take her clothes off.

She grabs my dick.

Up and down.

I throw her on the bed.

I pin her down, crushing her breasts with my chest, holding her wrists.

I press my face against the pillow, pounding into her.

Harder, faster, deeper.

I try not to cry.

* * *

A/N: Hello! I'm still alive though not kicking, because writing this has wiped me out. How is everybody?

It was a struggle at first, starting this. But I missed it so I said, well, suck it up and write. This didn't come out as I had expected. Oh well. Fuck it. How's about a huge welcome back to Keri, CI Hall of Famer? Another thing, I'm glad there are new stories being posted here. Hurrah! Because I'm getting sick of mine! Hahaha!


	2. Chapter 2

II.

_And I wept at the mistakes we made  
We stalked the streets like animals  
And danced as windows shattered  
For our island, for the thrill of it, for everything that mattered_

_Oh, how could anyone not want to rip it all apart?  
Oh, how could anyone not love your cold, black heart?_

-Barricade by Stars

--

Morning.

Five months after

We are in the white room.

Surrounded by lilac lilies flowers that never die, never rot. Plastic? Or not. Someone replaces the flowers everyday. Or every week. I don't know. White couches in front of floor to ceiling windows. The view from here? Stunning. Not a blade of grass left untrimmed. Occasionally the heroin addict heiress walks by, fingers trembling, black eyes gloomy. A few paces behind her, the male orderly is there, hopelessly in _love_. She walks, he follows. He tries not to let her know that he follows her, tries to make her and everybody see that he is just worried because of the telltale scars on her wrists and her thighs. But everybody knows. His expression is easy to read.

The heroin addict heiress confides in the coke addict rock star. Sometimes she sneaks into his room late at night to sleep with him. They look more like siblings. They drown in each other's skin, each other's vanity. When they kiss, they kiss themselves. When they fuck, they fuck themselves.

The male orderly stands guard during those times. Sometimes he looks like he wants to cry. Sometimes he jerks off to the sound of her moaning. Outside the coke addict rock star's room he'd strain to listen with his hand in his pants. He'd open his mouth and pretend the male grunts that followed the heroin addict heiress' moans are his.

This is love. It is sick and it degrades people to sobbing masturbators.

Inside the white room:

The bulimic alcoholic coke addict heiress and the traitor the former almost lover my very own degraded sobbing masturbator.

Sitting.

Apart.

Every week he sits there, reading. He stays for an hour. Sometimes two.

We never talk.

We never touch.

When he accidentally grazed my arm once I took the vase and smashed it against his skull. Blood. Glass.

_Just an accident, just an accident_, he told the Gestapo the bastards clad in white as they came running. He pressed his hand against his bleeding head. _I slipped and broke it._ S_orry, sorry, sorry._

They left the white room. I stayed, flipping through a magazine.

He came back. Head bandaged, he came back.

He came back.

He sat beside me and picked up his book.

He read silently.

Then he left.

There's no schedule set for his visits. He comes when he comes. I would have liked to tell him about the heroin addict heiress, the coke addict rock star, and the masturbating male orderly but we don't really talk.

He looks the same. Except for maybe the stitches from the vase incident. Sometimes he smells like my room. Sometimes like my pillows. Sometimes like cigarettes, like pot. I often get the urge to rub myself against him just so I can smell like him just so I can wrap myself around my life in New York. Not because I want to fuck him.

He reads. But not really.

The way he looks at the book you can tell that he's just staring at the page. He darts glances at me. I am comfortable with the set up. The silence is soothing. And today, Mr. Jerk Off Orderly and Ms. Heroin Heiress are talking. Mr. Rock Star is also outside, hanging out with the other residents in this luxurious hell. He sees me and he waves. I nod and I smile. I like him. Sometimes we fuck. Sometimes we just talk. We talk about everything. Mr. Rock Star knows about Mr. Jerk Off Orderly and he sympathizes but what can he do, he asked, shrugging. That's how it is. He said Ms. Heroin Heiress is a crazy bitch but she is like a sister, like a stepsister, like a sister-lover.

He's under enormous pressure from everyone outside this facility. Mr. Rock Star is the biggest rock star in the world. Everybody wants him. He might leave soon. Ms. Heroin Heiress might try to slit her throat. When she's under suicide watch (which is most of the time), Mr. Rock Star and I share a cigarette. We eat together. He talks about his Ms. Heroin Heiress and I talk about my Mr. Stitched Face, my stepbrother, with the small scar on his cheek and the rest of the scar family hidden by his hair.

Mr. Stitched Face turns a page.

The distance lessens. Every time he comes he sits just a little bit closer.

This kind of stillness can drive anybody mad. Each time he's here I can feel him slowly heading to that point. Every minute of silence is like being stabbed for him. He's not used to it, not like me. He feels the need to destroy it. Mr. Stitched Face is impatient, often irrational. I had to hold his hand when he was a little boy because he kept running across the street into the moving traffic. He lives for the noise and the movement.

It starts with Mr. Rock Star taking off his sunglasses to stare at me while Ms. Heroin Heiress is taking a nap on the lounge chair.

It is a soft stare, affectionate, warm. It is the kind of stare that can only be used on someone you_ really know_.

The book drops.

Hungry mouth violent arms face pressed against my neck, Mr. Stitched Face assaults me. He grabs my wrists and Mr. Rock Star starts running but I shake my head no.

Mr. Stitched Face heaves and grunts, fumbling with my clothes, fumbling with his pants. He licks my neck, my mouth, my breasts.

I don't move.

He hits me. Not too hard. Just enough to provoke me. I feel like my body will leave an impression on this couch at the way he is handling me. He is squeezing my breast he is rubbing his clothed erection against my sex. He pulls my hair. He takes my hand and puts it inside his pants.

I still don't move.

His mouth intently against mine, his tongue moving around my dead tongue.

Motionless.

He does this for a few more seconds. My body is a pale skinny sex doll.

He hits me again. This time harder. My cheek stings. He yanks my panties down, nearly bites my clitoris off.

I lie there.

Then he stops. He stops and the violence stops and then he starts shaking. He rubs his cheek against my vagina against the pubic hair and he makes his way up he rests on my stomach his arms go around me he holds me tight he's shaking so bad I wonder if he's sick.

Slowly, my hand rests on his head. I stroke his hair and he moans as though he's the one who's been slapped around. He holds me tighter, tighter, fusing his fingers together trying to mold our skin into one so he will never have to let go never have to leave.

But then he does leave.

Visiting hours are over.

Mr. Rock Star visits me later that day. He takes out a cigarette. Lights it. Passes it to me. I take a drag. I pass it to him. He tells me that Ms. Heroin Heiress is having her stomach pumped. He tells me that his record company's going to get him out soon because he needs to get back to work. He makes me promise to be the one to tell him if she ends up killing herself.

He never asks about my bruises.

He touches my cheek once, the bruised part.

And that's that.

We share our cigarette like it's the last cigarette in the world.

* * *

A/N: Oh, fuck. I had been aiming for less than a thousand words. Oh well. Maybe in the next chapter. Thanks for those of you who still manage to go through the excruciating pain of reading my ramblings after all this time.

CIFan: Thanks. Very. Much. I kind of feel bad and glad at the same time when someone tells me one of my stories almost made them cry. Or tear up. I'll just hope it's a good thing, because there's also the possibility of one crying over the agony of being duped into reading a horrible story. Haha. :D Revival of CI fic? This was where I sort of developed my writing style, I figured it'd be nice to come back to it every now and then. Besides, you and loads of people post stories here as well. It seems the CI fic is very much alive and in capable hands.

NeptunesBlue: Thanks! I like writing the stories like this as well. Might be a while before I decide to tackle an insanely long story again.

Vintage elle: Nope, I'm still here. Like I said, I'll pop up every now and then but you won't run out of stories to read here. There are some great writers onboard the CI bus.

Keri: Thanks, One of My CI Influences. Hahaha, ditto.

Kaila: Well, thank you very much. I'm glad you haven't grown sick of them yet. :D

Sweet Smiles: And one big amazing thanks to you!

B: When will that CI chapter ever leave your neurotic head and turn into an update?


	3. Chapter 3

III.

_I found you on a Saturday, and that was where I lost you  
You had to finally walk away because of what it cost you, years later when I saw your face  
In line to catch the morning train, you looked like you'd been softened  
Like you never really loved the pain_

-Barricade by Stars

**Sebastian:**

A year later now.

Your bed never gets cold. I lie on it to think to sleep to rest. It's the only place I can ever rest. I try to remember the exact size and shape of the impression your head would leave on your pillow. The left side, your side.

I drown the voices out. Annette. Blaine. I wait for yours. Anything of yours. If you tell me to fuck off, I'll take it. Gladly, I'll take it I'll hold it I'll remember your voice and the tone of it.

I am in your room. I touch your things, I feel like your bed is made of your skin and all I want to do is sleep naked in it. I'm sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I always clean up. It's just sometimes, sometimes I need it.

We could go over this for a long time. Analyze it, construct a time line, and try to make sense of things.

There is no point in doing so.

Come back to me. Now, please. Come back.

I touch my scalp and feel the scars. Glass and blood, my violent love. The moment of impact was a kiss; the blood that ran down was an orgasm. If they hadn't come running in I would have asked you to lick the blood off. I am hungry for you, for your tongue, your saliva, your touch.

There are no more impressions of your body on this bed. They are on me. You sit on my chest, you lie on top of me, your hair entwines with mine.

A knock on the door.

Your mother.

She enters. When she looks at me all I want to do is to have her keep looking at me. She has your eyes. I know you don't like it when I tell you that, but it's true. She has the same shrewd stare, the same coldness in them.

What are you doing here? She asks.

I don't reply.

Well. the maids are coming to clean Kathryn's room later. She's getting out of rehab tomorrow. She says.

What?

I stand up heart pounding suddenly sweating.

What?

**Kathryn:**

No more plastic bracelet, my wrist is finally free from the tacky accessory. Mr. Jerk Off Orderly has cut it off for me because I have a horrible rash on my skin from it. I officially get out tomorrow (and that's only when they're supposed to cut it off) but the rash has been bugging the fuck out of me. He's grown on me, this Mr. Jerk Off Orderly.

It's strange how I don't feel any different although everyone here tells me I've changed. I wonder how they'll know this if I've never bothered to show them who I really was to begin with.

But then I think maybe they're right.  
_  
How are you feeling?_ Mr. Jerk Off Orderly asks. His hand lingers and the scissors glint under the white light. Temptingly. I wonder how much he would bleed if I stabbed him.

_Clean_. I reply. His hand touches mine I see the desire in his expression Mr. Jerk Off Orderly has a thing for heiresses.

Silence.

Then,

screaming.

Loud footsteps.

The alarm.

Someone yells out Ms. Heroin Heiress' surname and Mr. Jerk Off Orderly drops the scissors he runs out of my room.

_ No_ he screams. I can hear him clearly. He sobs, _no god no._

I correct him mentally. _God has nothing to do with this, Mr. Masturbator._ I walk out of my room and head towards the commotion.

In Ms. Heroin Heiress' room:

Her skinny white body the veins clearly visible what a waste. Long black hair fanned out, tiny face thin blue lips wrists open blood flowing. Typical. Ms. Heroin Heiress, Ms. Overly Emotional, Ms. Overly Dramatic. The old wrist slitting ploy.

Mr. Jerk Off Orderly (or Mr. Masturbator, whichever you prefer because I don't really mind both names sound good to me) scoops up her body. Tenderly. I think maybe if they were alone he would have fucked her. He buries his head in Ms. Heroin Heiress' cold neck and he cries wahhh wahhh poor little boy.

That stupid weak bitch.

Some of the other residents are crying, some of them are shocked. One of them throws up all over someone's feet. Mr. Jerk Off Orderly and his dead princess, they're just there and they're trying to take her from him but the poor boy, he loses it. He almost snaps her neck he actually tries to run out of the room carrying her corpse her little breasts underdeveloped they look more like a twelve year old's than a seventeen year old's.

His eyes are wet, bloodshot, frantic. He bares his teeth he looks like he belongs with the residents.  
_  
You can't have her she's not dead she's not._ His voice cracks he looks at her he uses his other hand to brush her hair. _She just needs help please why won't you let me bring her to the clinic?_

Drip. Drip. Dripping blood on the floor. It mixes with the vomit.

I cringe at his voice so desperate so pathetic. His eyes so furious and lost and determined. He carries her looks at her talks to her _wake up just wake up, Ms. Heroin Heiress._ He presses his cheek against her head his knees buckle he places her on the floor.

Everybody is too stunned to stop him.

He takes her hand, gets blood all over his white uniform.

He presses it against his face.

He rubs it against his cheek.

Blood all over him.

_Please, please, please _he says, drowning in his own world.

_ Please,_

When he looks up at me,

All I see is Mr. Stitched Face.

When I look at Ms. Heroin Heiress,

All I see is me.

I turn around and walk to my room.

I shut the door.

Outside: it is a beautiful sunny afternoon.

Inside: I take my pillow.

I scream in it. Voice and spit and I feel myself evolving changing. I scream and scream and scream until my throat hurts. I scream and scream and scream until my voice doesn't feel like mine anymore.

I call Mr. Rock Star's cell phone.

And I tell him about Ms. Heroin Heiress.

As promised.

* * *

A/N: Wow, there's this new feature in FF called Reader Traffic. Is it accurate? There are people from US, Hongkong, Sweden, Romania, Finland, Greece, Spain, Canada, Trinidad and Tobago, Russia, Bangladesh…… (and loads of other countries tell me if I've missed anything, I'm very sorry if I have!!) popping up in the bar chart over here. Kind of mindboggling if it's accurate. Is it? I mean, really? Anybody here from Sweden? Apparently Sweden's the second highest country in the trusty bar chart. Who's the one from Greece? I wanna go to Greece and Brazil and Spain and pretty much every country in the world. Drop a review and let me know where you're from. I still can't quite wrap my head around the whole thing.

The next part is the last part. It will be very, very short. If I have my way with it. It will not have a happy ending. I'm saying it now before you all go come throw things at me. I figured I've given you guys enough happy endings, and I like this piece too much to be swayed by the masses. Hahaha

Next project in the works? For the longest time I've wanted to write a series of one shots based on some of my other stories. I've been thinking of Elle and Ian and Conner and the lot, but we'll see. Some of you might not be able to appreciate (or like it very much) because not all of you might have been able to check out the monstrous thing that is Desunt Cetera. Any thoughts on the matter?

NeptunesBlue: About three or so years ago I was pretty much afraid of writing scenes like this. The trick is to not be bothered by what people will think of you when you write graphic scenes, and if it's necessary for the story and the execution is fitting, the readers will probably understand it and they won't think you're some perv/twisted freak. Once you get over that first hurdle (e.g. that 'sensitive' detail/scene), you can pretty much taboo away. Go for it!!

Marissa Davis: I'm very sorry for not updating These Letters to You. This is mainly because my writing style has changed since then so I'm having trouble adjusting. You might think I've had a lobotomy if you compared the chapters. Anyway, thanks very much. One of the best pieces of writing you've ever read? Now that's too much. Stop before my ego explodes. Lol

Vintage elle: Absolutely thankful. :)


	4. Chapter 4

IV

_I think about how it might have been._

-Reason Why by Rachael Yamagata  
--

Sebastian wakes up. He leaves his bed and surveys his reflection. He had his alarm set at 10 a.m. but it's only 7 a.m.. He doesn't go back to sleep. He feels nervous. He tries not to, but he does.

He doesn't go back to sleep. He heads to the bathroom and takes a bath. He shaves. He eats. He wears his favorite suit.

He waits.

He checks his watch.

He waits.

He gets a drink.

He waits.

He calls Blaine.

He waits.

He eats. Barely.

The sun sets.

He waits.

Kathryn's room goes cold.

He waits.

The door opens.

He stands up.

Only Blaine.

Where is she? He asks.

Blaine doesn't say anything. He only gives Sebastian the platinum rosary.

Where is she? He asks, this time louder.

Blaine shakes his head slightly.

She's gone, Valmont.

Where? Fists clench the beads press against his skin. Where is she, Blaine?

I don't know.

Yes, you do.

No, I don't.

Sebastian hits him. Again and again and again. They are on the floor. Hit punch bruise pain.

Where is she? Sebastian yells. The rosary is wrapped around his knuckles. Blood and platinum.

She disappeared at the airport. She left this. I think she wants you to have it.

You know where she is, you know it and you just won't tell me!

Hit. Hit. Hit.

Blaine's face: cracked and broken. He doesn't talk. He only looks at Sebastian.

Goddamn you, Tuttle. Sebastian yells.

Blaine remains silent.

It is as if the strength is suddenly sucked out of his body. Sebastian's shoulders slump. He gets off Blaine.

Goddamn you, he whispers. His hands go to his face, he grabs his hair and tugs slightly. You should have never let her go.

He repeats this several times.

You should have never let her go.

His voice grows softer, softer.

_You should have never let her go._

They remain silent in Kathryn's cold room.

After a while, Blaine speaks.

Do you think she's going to come back? You know, for revenge?

Sebastian opens his eyes. You don't get it, do you?

Blaine remains lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. He takes a cigarette and puts it between his split lips, lighting it. His eye is swollen. He squints a little.

Enlighten me, Blaine says wryly.

Sebastian looks at him.

She's not coming back.

Why not? It isn't her style at all.

It's exactly her style. Leaving me is the best possible revenge.

Sebastian's hand shakes slightly.

Blaine lights a cigarette and hands it to him.

Sebastian puffs on his cigarette for a while.

They smoke two packs.

--

It is night.

Blaine has left.

Sebastian places the rosary in his pocket.

He takes his shoes off.

And his socks.

He loosens his tie.

He goes to her bed, pulls the blankets and shivers.

He waits.

He waits.

* * *

A/N: **The end. **Yes, it's the end. I don't know if anybody noticed but this story actually has the same plot as In Absentia. Only that one consisted of conversations and the lack of physical contact, whereas this one had a lack of dialogue between KS. I was curious as to writing a fic wherein they don't actually talk. As for the writing style, basically I wanted to see what I can get away with. So I know it's not my usual style, but it's growing on me.

This Reader Traffic is really something. I know, I know. I already mentioned this. It's just I never knew how far this thing reached. Thanks for those of you who dropped a review and let me know where you're from. Still very surreal to imagine someone from Spain or Romania reading this right now, but apparently, wonders never cease. :-)

Vintage Elle: Funny you should say that, actually I came across Frey's book (_My Friend Leonard_) and I had heard about the whole controversy thing with his other book so I decided, okay let's try him out. I was pleasantly surprised at the writing style, hurrah I'm not alone in the world. I don't really write like this in real life, though I wish I could. I'm less fragmented and more restrained because I've always thought that it was a no-no or something in fiction, so it was nice to see an author do it (and get away with it). But I know what you're talking about. I just look at everything I've done before this and I think it's all overkill.

NeptunesBlue: I'd definitely start with drabbles, as a warm up of sorts. I'm hardly the best person to give you advice on this one, but if I could do it all over, I'd start with something small to get a feel of the characters. I'm looking forward to reading your work.

B: Actually this is the shortest chapter you've read from me. It only has 470+ words. I've gotten sick of my excessiveness. Maybe I don't want to be a word whore anymore.

Jude-lost: Hi back! Since the beginning? Yikes. Haha, well I'm glad you like the stories (even the ones that suck) and I hope you keep on reading!

Iris: Thanks very much!


End file.
